Tara Crisan Sweatt

For those of us fortunate enough to grow up in two-parent households, I would like to touch on some memories we may all have in daddy wheel houses: the feeling of surprised abandonment when we realize he is no longer holding on to our bicycle seat but is many yards behind us right before we lose our balance. Falling out of a tree and screaming for him because Mother had already told us not to climb so high and we might face a lecture in addition to that bone we couldn’t name sticking out of our leg. Watching him attempt to put together our more complicated Christmas toys until he was pulling at his hair, red faced and using words we’d never heard before, and flinging little shiny pieces we were certain had importance in the semblance of the toy, but dared not say anything. But I remember thinking from behind the open door in my room.

“This is Santa’s fault. He should have taken care of this. What are those elves for anyway? My father’s a big man with large fingers. I’d write a letter if I weren’t afraid the effect on next year’s haul.”

Of course, we all have our own memories: fishing, hunting, camping, sports, camping, building a treehouse in the back yard. My husband and stepson shoot targets with BB guns, play video games, and watch stomach turning movies about middle earth people and mutants. I don’t understand it, but I’m glad they’re spending time together.

My daddy was a doting. If a girl didn’t like me, she must be jealous. If a boy wasn’t interested, he was clearly intimidated by intelligence. Any flaw I had that couldn’t be denied only added to my character. Every Sunday morning when I was dressed for church, he pretended to confuse me for Marilyn Monroe.

When I was a cheerleader, he at every game. When I was in theater, he was at every play. Having an incurable tendency to be late, he was always in the back row with tears streaming down his face like a fountain. He was not one to hide his emotions.

“Is that your dad on the back row crying?” a fellow cast member would inevitably ask. I thought about denying it. But the striking resemblance I bore to the woman sitting next to him precluded it. I would say, “Yep, that’s my dad.” And that’s the last time I would say that without pride and affection. I was almost grown and learning to appreciate him.

When, in the title, I wrote “Counsel to Kids”, I didn’t mean children. I meant anyone of any age with the immeasurable good fortune to have an active father in his or her life. We are always reminded of how hard they worked and how much they sacrificed. And that is true. I’ve seen my own husband go without necessities so his kids could have luxuries. It’s one of the reasons I love him.

But there’s an old saying, “Anyone can be a father. But it takes a man to be daddy.” And if you had a daddy, someone who was at every game, or threw the ball with you for hours the day before so you would be more likely to hit or catch the ball; or maybe he sat on a tiny chair to drink air out of a teacup with you and make small talk with your stuffed animals, you should, as my old friend, Shakespeare said, “Scorn to change your state with kings.” Because you are beyond lucky, you are blessed. In today’s society, you are statistically one of the view.

Your father didn’t just take responsibility. He didn’t just take the wheel. He took an interest.

And if he is still with us, let him know. Thank him every day you can in every way you can. And I don’t just mean the greeting card thank yous about supporting the family and showing you by example of what a man can be. I mean every specific memory you have of his selflessness or example of his ceaseless affection and support. It will mean so much more than the generic “Thanks for raising me,” sentiments that require so little effort and are worth just as much.

I have recently discovered my own dear daddy is not long for this world. He is 80, has suffered, and — as is in keeping with his nature — is at peace with it save for his concern about my mother, whom he has adored beyond reason for over 50 years. But this is not about my grief, which is too weighty to be contained in a column. Though I do have a story in my brain bank for every time we speak.

It is about remembering not only the obligations that were met, the burdens that were shouldered, but the gestures that said, “I love you. I care about you, It pleases me to please you.” And it doesn’t just apply to fathers either, but anyone who went out of his or her way to know you well and used that knowledge to make you happy.

In fact, I think there will come a time when I will like to hear such things. I may spend today buying journals for my stepkids, nieces and nephews.

Maybe that will be their first entry, “Aunt Tara Thought of Everything.”